


Home Alone

by idyll



Series: Not a Pretty Girl [16]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Community: 14valentines, Gen, cis!girl Bob, cis!girl au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-10
Updated: 2008-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob locks herself in her grown-up Chicago apartment, climbs into her bed, and plans to stay there for the foreseeable future. (Girl!Bob)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Alone

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://community.livejournal.com/14valentines/profile)[**14valentines**](http://community.livejournal.com/14valentines/) [Day 10 - Peace Movement](http://community.livejournal.com/14valentines/104974.html)

After days of doctors, consultations from specialists, lectures from everyone she comes into contact with in the medical field, and endless poking and prodding, Bob locks herself in her grown-up Chicago apartment, climbs into her bed, and plans to stay there for the foreseeable future.

Three days into her hibernation her mom shows up, lets herself in with her key, and comes into Bob's bedroom to pull the covers off her in a flourish. She stands over Bob, her hands on her hips and her lips pursed tightly.

"You haven't been answering your phone." Bob just stares at her mother, who narrows her eyes. "You're wearing the same clothes you were when I brought you home on Wednesday." Bob still doesn't say anything; her mom's nostrils flare at the lack of response. "If you think I'm going to let you spend the next stretch of time wallowing pathetically, you have another thing coming, Roberta. Get your ass out of bed. _Now._"

*

Bob's mother is a bully. Simple as that. She bullies Bob out of bed, into the bathroom, out of her clothes and into the tub. Along the way she says things like, "Don't you huff at me, Roberta" and "I did not raise you to be a lump on a log" and "Dear Lord, when was the last time you washed your hair?"

If Bob wasn't numb and apathetic about everything in the world, she'd find the whole thing demoralizing. As it is, she just holds in her sighs and lets her mother have her way.

When Bob is freshly scrubbed, and dressed in sweats and an oversized t-shirt, her mom steers her into the kitchen and heats up one of the containers of food she sent Bob home with earlier in the week.

"Honestly, this isn't like you," she says as she pours homemade soup into a large mug and hands it to Bob, who takes it awkwardly in her left hand. "You don't indulge in self-pity."

Bob inhales deeply but the smell of the soup makes her stomach cramp up painfully and she starts to set the mug down. Her mother glares at her sharply and Bob keeps it in hand, though she can't bring herself to sip from it.

"Roberta, I expect an answer."

"You haven't asked me anything." It's a childish response and her mother slaps the table between them in reproach. "I don't know what you expect me to say!"

She doesn't. She doesn't even know what there _is_ to say. Her wrist is seriously fucked up right now to the point that she's not even allowed to take her brace off for the time being. At some point in the next week or so she'll start painful rounds of physical therapy and maybe, if she's really lucky, she might be able to drum again. Or not. The doctors are hedging their bets and telling her useless shit like _take it one day at a time_.

Her mom looks at her, one of those piercing looks that all mothers have. "You still haven't talked to them, have you?"

Bob freezes. "Mom. You don't--I was--" She gestures helplessly with her braced-hand and looks away. "They're not..."

Her mom sighs and pushes away from the table. She nudges Bob's arm pointedly on her way to the fridge--a clear message for Bob to do something with the soup other than hold it--and Bob grimaces but takes a very small sip. As soon as she swallows she realizes that she hasn't eaten in days and she's _starving_. She takes another huge gulp and licks her lips.

Her mom places a bottle of water on the table in front of her, the cap conveniently removed, and sits down across from Bob again.

"Do you really think those boys aren't concerned?" she asks Bob quietly. Bob drinks some more soup and shrugs uncomfortably. "I'm not sure what's going on with you. I've seen you hurt. Scared. Angry. None of that has ever made you hide. In fact, it's made you do the opposite."

The problem with mothers, besides the bullying and piercing looks, is that they know you too damn well. Bob finishes her soup and holds the mug out hopefully. Her mother snorts softly but takes it and refills it. Bob sips slowly at her second helping of soup and stares at her gimpy hand. Her mother, reinforcing just how well she knows Bob, doesn't say anything and just stares at Bob unrelentingly, giving her time to gather her thoughts but making it clear that she will be expected to speak.

"I let them down," Bob mutters after a while. She sets her mug on the table and picks up the water. "It was--it was a hometown show, with _Bon Jovi_, Mom, and I _fucked it up_."

Her mom opens her mouth, then closes it and rubs her forehead. Bob recognizes the gesture from her high school years, when her mother would try to remain patient while dealing with Bob's inability to verbalize what was going on in her head.

"You had a medical problem," her mother says carefully. "It's not as though you're incompetent, or went on stage drunk. I'm sure the others understood--"

"They were angry."

Her mother pinches the bridge of her nose. "About cutting the set in half, or about you going against medical advice and pushing yourself so hard that you were unable to feel or move your hand?" She lowers her hand from her face and gives Bob a very unimpressed look. "Because I know which one made _me_ angry."

Bob slams her water bottle on the table. "They're not you. They're not my mother, okay? I fucked up something that was important to them because I was weak, and they had to find a replacement for me, and he learned the damn set in one fucking day, and now they're off playing shows and I'm here. I'm here, Mom, and no one's irreplaceable, and I don't even know what I'll be able to do if I can't--"

The tears take her by surprise. She's always been able to feel the slight burn in her eyes and pull it back, hold it in. But not this time. Not with her mother sitting there with her face crumpled sympathetically. Not when Bob feels like there's a good chance she's about to lose her entire _life_.

Her mother is up and around the table in a flash. She leans down and pulls Bob in close, hugging her tightly. Bob sobs uncontrollably against her chest for many, many minutes while her mother kisses her head and rubs her back. When Bob winds down and is just sniffling now and then, her mother takes Bob's face in her hands and looks down at her. "Feel better?"

Bob scowls. "My head is pounding, my eyes are swelling, and I snotted all over your shirt."

Her mother chuckles. "Well, you definitely sound more like yourself. Go on, go wash your face." Before Bob leaves the kitchen, her mother says, "You're not weak." Bob turns and sees her mother standing straight-backed, with her chin lifted and her arms crossed. "Too stubborn for your own good, but never weak. I promise."

Bob takes a thick breath and nods slowly. "Okay. Okay."

*

Her mother insists on spending the night and they sit on Bob's sofa, Bob tucked under one of her mom's arms, and watch television into the wee hours of the night.

"What am I going to do, Mom?" Bob asks at almost three in the morning.

Her mother makes a small noise. "For now? Call some friends and get out of the house. Long term? You can figure that out when you know more." She leans her cheek on the top of Bob's head. "Whatever happens, you'll be okay. That's who you are."

Bob smiles slightly. Her mother is really good at breaking things down, being practical, and making _sense_. "I was actually talking about my hair," she deadpans. "I can't do it with one hand."

Her mom pinches her cheek and laughs silently. "We'll get you a hat, brat."

Bob laughs along with her and closes her eyes. "Thanks, Mom."

"I love you, kiddo, and I'm proud of you. Always."

"Yeah, I know. I love you too."

*

When Bob checks her email the next day--for the first time since she left the tour--there are a bunch of emails from Mikey. One for each day she's been gone. There's nothing particularly special about any of them. He tells her about things he's seen, funny things that have happened, and sends her pictures of stuff that he says made him think of her. He talks about the shows, too, in a general sense, and says that they've been collecting a bunch of get-well gifts from the fans for her.

Bob feels sort of shitty for avoiding this. She responds to Mikey's most recent email: _hey. sorry. was having a rough time. thanks for the emails. keep them coming?_

Then she goes out to buy several hats and start reconnecting with people she hasn't seen in a while. She has lunch with a few old friends, then pops back home to change and meet up with some others for a show at a venue she worked at a few times back in the day.

Turns out she knows the guy running the board for the band. They get to talking and, after the band's done, he lets her mess around with his board a bit. To Bob's surprise, she can work it. Not as easily as she used to, and not without some adjustments, but she can fucking handle a board even with the goddamn brace and only half the feeling back in her fingers and hand. She sways, dizzy with relief, and ends up agreeing to cover two shows for the guy so that he can do a road gig for another band he works with.

She gets home near to dawn and has another daily email from Mikey, which ends with: _You don't have to apologize. I get it._

Bob figures that if anyone _could_ get it, it's absolutely Mikey.

*

Bob hooks up with a jazz fusion band the following week and agrees to do sound for them for a handful of shows, which leads to a some calls coming her way from other bands and venues. Before she knows it the next three weeks of her life are booked solid and the weeks after that are already filling up.

The physical therapy starts up around the same time and Bob has good days, bad days, and days that make her want to just chop her hands off at the wrists and be done with it. Her mom pushes her through the worst of them, and Mikey's emails help, too.

He tacks another note to the end of one about a week into Bob's PT: _If you feel like talking about it, maybe you could let us know how you're doing._

Bob knows her doctors are forwarding reports over to Brian, at her request. The guys know the medical details so that's not what Mikey's referring to. She hits reply: _kinda hard to type with one hand. can't even use the shift key. i'm doing better now, though. my mother made me get over myself. been doing sound for some local acts. physical therapy is a bitch._ She hesitates, then adds: _i guess the others are still pissed? tell them i'm sorry._

When she gets home from her PT session the next afternoon, it's to emails from the others.

From Brian: _We were giving you space, you fucking moron. I swear to god, you get more stupid with every year I know you. Also, it would be nice to hear from you and not just your damn doctors, assface._

From Gerard: _I get why you thought we were mad. But, really, Bob. We're not, I promise. Just stay in touch, okay?_

From Ray: _I had a fucking awesome raid last weekend and totally kicked ass. And I think I've got something to go with that beat you came up with on Projekt Revolution. You know, the one from the day with the fish? Give it a listen and see what you think. Gee thinks he can work with it. Oh, and you're an idiot._

From Frank: _I talked to Jamia and she volunteered to go to Chicago and kick your ass for being stupid. Don't even try to watch your back, you know she's sneaky like a ninja._

From Jamia: _That's the last fucking time I listen to your band. They're such dipshits. I mean, space? Seriously, I should have known better. Anyway, I've got a few free days next week. Want some company?_

From Mikey, at the end of his daily post: _You must have been dropped on your head as a child. That's the only explanation._

*

The time feels like it drags on and on, but before Bob knows it the current leg of the tour is about to finish up. It makes her feel better to know that the guys will be at home rather than being on the road without her.

It's kind of a crappy thing to feel good about but Bob's still going though intensive physical therapy, is still under restrictions for the use of her hand, and still can't get a clear answer about whether she'll be able to drum again. She figures it's understandable that she's a little bitter, even if she _is_ starting to feel like she'll be all right, no matter what happens. Or even if the worst happens.

*

Bob's mom makes her promise to have lunch with her on a Thursday, so Bob is up, dressed and ready when her bell rings. Only it's not her mother on the other side of the door, it's Gerard, Mikey, Ray, Frank and Brian.

"You look like shit," is the first thing Bob says, because they do. They look road tired and tour dirty, and she realizes they must have flown directly here when they came back into the country.

"Are you gonna fucking let us in?" Brian asks.

They're all smiling at her, tired and worn but bright.

Bob grins back at them and pulls the door open all the way. "Get in here, assholes."

.End


End file.
